


Soaring

by HyperLittleNori (Shiguresan)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal, Gay Sex, M/M, Peter Hale's special version of courtship, Porn with Feelings, Porn with slight plot thrown in, Post-Series, Rimming, but very little canon storyline is mentioned, canon-compliant up until end of season 3, everyone but Stiles know they have a thing going, it's not really breathplay but still be safe, lots of throat holding that could hint at breathplay, potentially undernegotiated kinks but both parties have fun with no bad feelings or discomfort, slightly redeemed Peter, some gentle biting, unspoken D/s themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 18:05:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17085140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiguresan/pseuds/HyperLittleNori
Summary: Over the years, things have slowly changed between Stiles and Peter without Stiles realising. When a sudden snowfall leaves them with only each other to consider, however, they both realise how perfectly they fit together. A light-hearted, sweet/kinky story for the Steter Secret Santa Gift Exchange 2018.





	Soaring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Olor_et_Luna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Olor_et_Luna/gifts).



> Author's Note: My Steter Secret Santa Gift for Olor_et_Luna (Olor-et-Luna on Tumblr). Oh my goodness I was so indecisive here. I changed the storyline so many times as it never quite felt right, I started around 4 drafts and ended up with something that turned out so naughty and very NSFW! I thought you might like something light-hearted and smutty, I hope I made the right guess. Sorry if I was so very wrong and it’s so very not your taste and I just come across as some inappropriate weirdo. But I really hope you enjoy :)
> 
> Story Note: Canon-compliant until end of season 3 (let’s forget Peter’s “I’ve always been the alpha” speech though, since the TW writers did). This is also in the future, post high school so Stiles is about 25. Malia probably happened still but she isn’t mentioned in this story and for the sake of this story she isn’t Peter’s daughter.
> 
> Also, for the record, although it doesn’t really bear saying, I don’t support the wasting of police time or prank calls to emergency services but, well, I don’t support lots of things Peter does and I still fully support Peter ;)

**Soaring**

 

 

 

“Beacon Hills 9-1-1, what’s the location of your emergency?” Stiles asked, watching the information already loading up on his screen, logging his conversation with the caller, their number, trying to lock their location. They had some good technology, better than most towns after the new mayor making good on their promise for some better equipment, but it wasn’t exactly cutting edge – it was tax payer’s after all, it couldn’t afford to be, so the screen lagged as it tried to get  a fix on the location.

 

 “Hello Dispatch, there is a _Code Brew_ in downtown Beacon Hills. The only good coffee shop in this uncultured town has _run out of coffee_. I’m not even sure why I didn’t just stay dead.”

 

 Stiles’s stomach flipped at the low, soft drawl. He dragged a hand across his face and up through his hair in frustration. “Sir, all calls are recorded–”

 

 “I have no doubt that they are, with such a finely run institution,” Peter cut across him easily. “I assure you I have no concerns for incriminating myself.”

 

 Stiles set his jaw. “Wasting police time is incriminating enough in itself, Sir.”

 

 “ _Sir?_ I’m not entirely sure if I dislike that, or like it a little too much…”

 

 Stiles took his job seriously, he was _good_ at it. He was good at talking, thinking on his feet, staying calm and getting the right information out of people so that help could get to them safely. Sometimes his motor mouth even helped to distract people, keep them calm until help got to them. After all of the supernatural stress he’d dealt with as a teenager, he’d long since learned to deal with stress when things didn’t go to plan, to deal with time wasters with a pinch of salt.

 

 Prank calls were actually something he had little tolerance for, which his dad found amusing, given his troublemaking tendencies as a child. But in a relatively small team like theirs it could have devastating delays. For all that though, the night had been quiet so far and he kept an eye on the keypad to ensure no other lines called in with actual emergencies as Peter spoke.

 

 Really, a part of him felt that if this was the ‘evil’ Peter had settled for, it was a fair compromise.

 

 “This isn’t a _Phone Sex Line_ , Sir, if you’re looking for someone to flirt with please consult one of those.”

 

 A small pause followed, a silence in which Stiles couldn’t help but wonder if Peter was calling from downtown or perhaps his apartment he’d mentioned on a few occasions he’d had there. The computer still hadn’t gotten an exact location. When he realised he was trying to guess if Peter was inside the chic interior of _A Lotta Latte_ in a crisp jacket or sprawled across his couch in an utterly inappropriate v-neck he caught himself.

 

 It _had_ been a long day. He couldn’t be blamed if his mind was wandering.

 

 “You sound almost bored with my spontaneous calls, _Dispatch_ , I might have to think of another way to excite you.”

 

 “I find complete and utter disregard absolutely riveting,” Stiles returned lightly, turning his head slightly to see Warren Casey, his colleague on the desk next to him, regarding him with a knowing look.

 

 On the phone, Peter gave a little laugh.

 

 Stiles disconnected the call.

 

 “Was that your admirer again?” Warren asked, in a tone that suggested exactly what he thought about Peter. He was an intern with a hopelessly romantic view of the world that Stiles, jaded as he was at the tender age of 25, would often roll his eyes at. Warren was fresh out of school and eager and a nice kid all-around though. Stiles supposed his ‘interest’ in his ‘admirer’ was Warren’s way of showing he was completely comfortable with his and everyone else’s sexuality.

 

 “I don’t know how he’s not been arrested now, you know?” Stiles said, disgruntled, but somehow Peter always called on nights that were quiet and the Sheriff’s Department had better things to do, he supposed. Regardless, Peter had gotten away with murder, literally, many times. He didn’t think there was much he couldn’t escape.

 

 “You know, you don’t _exactly_ sounds displeased when he calls you,” Warren said cautiously, in the same way Scott did sometimes when he wasn’t sure how Stiles might take something.

 

 Stiles snorted. “Trust me, I know how to deal with him.” He would not let Peter Hale get to him.

 

*

 

 Peter Hale just knew how to push his buttons.

 

 The random phone calls happened on his cell instead, as well as impromptu cryptic texts such as: _Sweet or Spicy?_ Or even: _Your parallel universe or mine?_

 

 He wasn’t sure why exactly he had piqued Peter’s interest, perhaps in a pack run by both Scott and Derek things had calmed down a little too much for Peter and he was bored, maybe even lonely. Whatever reason, it had all started months ago and Peter’s interest hadn’t waned.

 

 “I don’t know what to say Stiles,” Scott said as he ran his hands down the flank of the cat he’d been checking over to see if she was ready to go home. For all his distractions, he’d turned out a pretty good trainee at Deaton’s with a view to becoming partner some day, if he kept going the way he was. With Derek taking some of the weight as a hands-on second in pack matters, it was made even easier.

 

 “If you’re asking me as the alpha, I think if he’s proven himself to Derek, who I’d say he’s wronged the most, then he’s proven himself as a member of this pack, even if he is a bit…ambiguous. I don’t think he’d hurt any of us, I _know_ it, can feel it, like a pack thing I guess.”

 

 Stiles drummed his fingers along the edge of the table as Scott ran his fingers gently, confidently along the cat’s fur, before encouraging her back into her cage. “And as a friend?” Stiles prompted.

 

 Scott turned to him after fastening the cage door shut and fixed Stiles with that unhelpful, lopsided smile. “As your friend I’d say that Peter is dangerous but so am I, so are all of us. We’re werewolves, and Peter has history, but you know, a lot of the pack do. We’re about second chances, aren’t we? Peter has made good of his, I think.”

 

 It was true, that Stiles wasn’t sure where they would’ve been without him over the last few years. His lips quirked. “That still sounds like alpha advice to me.”

 

 “It’s hard to shelve,” Scott admitted sheepishly, with the same boyish charm he’d always carried, a unified pack allowing him to be the best he’d always been. And Stiles was a part of that. He hadn’t been blind to the reparations Peter had made in his roundabout, audacious way, but trusting him to protect his ass and trusting him in his personal life was another thing.

 

 “Okay, if you want my honest opinion, as your friend? You don’t sound too upset about Peter’s interest in you. You sound…flustered. Flattered. Excited.”

 

 Feeling his cheeks colour, Stiles pushed away from the examination table and dragged a hand through the back of his hair. “Dude, you make me sound like a virgin at prom.”

 

 “That’s exactly what everyone wants, isn’t?” Scott laughed kindly, “Someone who makes you feel completely crazy and excited and terrified all at the same time?”

 

 “How is it that you’re not more crazy about this?”

 

 With a shrug, Scott admitted, “you two have been doing this dance, this battle of sarcasm for months. Wolves sort of…okay, stalk is so the wrong word but maybe circle? We step to our uh… _interest_ and then step back, then in and then back. We make lots of little statements that all add up, you know? And it’s been kind of obvious that’s what he’s been doing for a while now. I’ve sort of…come around to the idea, I guess. We all have.”

 

 Stiles felt his stomach drop. “You _‘all’_?” he repeated in disbelief. “Like, this is some obvious, monumental thing you’ve all been getting used to?”

 

 Looking uncomfortable, Scott shrugged. “It wasn’t like…a big scheme or something just…he was making his intentions known, or whatever and when you didn’t shut him down we sort of just…got used to the idea, that’s all.” His expression twisted into a hesitant, wounded look, “you really didn’t know?”

 

 Stiles licked his dry lips. He thought about how when he’d outright told Peter not to call his work anymore, he _had_ stopped, but had taken to dropping off ‘anonymous’ coffee orders for the whole station at random, complete with doughnuts and pastries. He thought about how his only complaint to Peter about it had been his dad’s cholesterol, and how the next order had carried coffee with accopanying fruit bowls. He thought about the flirting at the pack-meetings or the texts and the way he’d played along with the game instead of rejecting it.

 

 Had everyone known but him?

 

 “For the record, I would so totally rip you a new one if I thought you were fooling around with Peter Hale,” Stiles admonished.

 

 Scott let out a startled laugh. “Because you were jealous or…?”

 

 “Because he is the _epitome_ of ‘grey area’ when it comes to morality.”

 

 He thought of how Peter had said so flippantly that he had been _awoken_ from his catatonic state, driven by instinct to sink his teeth into anything and everything, to gain the power to heal fully, how he hadn’t wanted to hurt his niece. At the time, with his cavalier attitude and delivery, it’d seemed half-hearted but over time, as he’d come to realise that was the mask that Peter put up as a front to guard himself, Stiles had found the truth in it. They all had. That didn’t absolve Peter of many of his sins, but his continuous (if arrant) reparations were a good start.

 

 Scott looked serious then. “Stiles, if he’s out of line, or if this is too much I’ll–”

 

 “No,” Stiles said quickly, “No, it’s…I just didn’t…”

 

 Scott came around to his side and squeezed his shoulder gently. “You sort of sound like you came here waiting for me to convince you he’s bad, a bad choice and to tell you it’s wrong and now I haven’t, you’re freaking out because there’s nothing stopping you.”

 

 Stiles didn’t have an answer for that, especially considering that, despite the truth in those words, a lot of these feelings had been subconscious until a few moments ago.

 

 After the initial rush of jealousy in the first few months after Scott was turned, Stiles had never really coveted werewolf abilities and he’d never felt pushed out of the new, stabilised pack for his humanity. Now though, he realised how instinctually everything came to all of them. They just revolved around each other like a dance of nonverbal understanding. Each subconsciously knew what the other was about and perhaps sometimes, if this was to be used as an example, forgot that Stiles had only human intuition and people skills to rely on.

 

 As he exorcised some of his angst out by cuddling the overnight stay cats and dogs, he tried to make sense of what Scott had wittily dubbed ‘sort of, like, werewolf courtship’ in his head.

 

*

 

  He still hadn’t figured it out when he signed off his night shift, looking forward to a few days off mostly unconscious in his sweatpants and eating take-out, when he stepped out of the station to find Peter Hale leaning against a sleek silver _BMW_ SUV with two cups of coffee in his hands. Stiles gave the car a long look in an effort to not survey Peter.

 

 “What happened to the _Shelby_?” he asked as he came to stand in front of him, readily accepting the proffered coffee because he was tired and it just smelled too good.

 

 “Well it’s a classic and a beauty, but not suitable for a mission of this nature,” Peter said easily.

 

 “And what mission is that?” Stiles asked warily, because Peter just looked too pleased with himself.

 

 “Derek is still in _South America_ with Cora and something has come up with a neighbouring pack in _Lake Grove_ that our esteemed alpha has delegated to us,” Peter said, punctuating his words by pulling the passenger door open.

 

 Stiles blinked. “Us?”

 

 Peter’s grin was sharklike. “It’s a matter that requires… _tact_ , a language we are more fluent in.”

 

 Stiles just stared at him. “Tact? You? _Me?_ ”

 

 “Well, eloquence anyway,” Peter mused. “Shall we? You can text your father on the way, though I know he is working a double today.”

 

 “You’re a stalker, you know that?”

 

 “Then why do you sound impressed?” Peter asked lightly, still with that flicker of a smile at the corner of his lips.

 

 “Because I’m as crazy as you,” Stiles admitted, climbing into the passenger seat and grabbing for the take-away bag sitting on the dash without even asking. The car purred to life and Stiles devoured half the juicy burger before Peter had even pulled out onto the road.

 

 “We’d better make a stop at my house,” Stiles sighed as he poked a few of the fries into his mouth and scrolled through the long apologetic message from Scott with his other hand. “ _Lake Grove_ is six hours away, that’s if it doesn’t snow us in or freeze us to death on the damn road.” He should probably bring his pillow and try and get some sleep, at least grab his cell charger and some spare clothes.

 

 The plus was that the _BMW_ had the most comfortable heated seat that Stiles had ever encountered.

 

 It had been a pretty cold January so far, if ever it were to snow, it’d be now. He had finished the food and was wiping his fingers on a napkin before he realised Peter still had an oddly pleased look on his face. “What can you possibly find amusing about getting snowed in up a mountain?”

 

 Peter just inclined his head at the paper bag Stiles was crumpling up. “You didn’t check to see if it was poisoned.”

 

*

 

 Apparently Scott had unwittingly offended the pack up in the picturesque mountains of _Lake Grove_ , _California_ by letting one of his new betas cross their boundary on a trip to visit the college campus without making their presence known. Situations like these were usually avoided by Derek’s knowledge of neighbouring packs but with him away visiting Cora, it’d just slipped through the net. Still, it wasn’t the first time Stiles had handled pack politics for Scott, it was something he was surprisingly good at but usually Lydia or even Derek or Scott himself accompanied him. Peter made a distinctly different partner in negotiations.

 

 He was charming and discreetly cunning, very aware of both werewolf politics and how to get people to do what he wanted. But while Stiles could pretty much guess where Lydia, Scott or Derek were going with their discussions, Peter maintained an air of mystery, aloofness that Stiles felt drawing _him_ in as well as the _Lake Grove_ pack.

 

 Stiles found him fascinating, the way he talked, the way he gestured idly, confidently as if it were all just a misunderstanding.

 

 “In and out in record time,” Stiles sighed as he sank into the passenger seat of the _BMW_. He closed his eyes. While he had napped on the drive up, it hadn’t exactly been restful. His muscles were a little sore from sleeping at the awkward angle and it had him fidgety. Judging by the way Peter kept cutting sideways glances at him, he’d noticed.

 

 “I don’t think that was even worth the gas,” Stiles complained, but he knew how these things worked by now. The slightest thing could set werewolf instincts on edge and they had to be dealt with quickly and in person.

 

 “They have renewed their allied status to our pack, something they hadn’t done since Talia died. It was well worth the journey,” Peter assured him, though he had a tight tension to his voice, as if the careful tiptoeing around another pack’s customs and beliefs had him wound tight and on edge still. He emitted the same aura the betas did near the full moon, the feeling of immense power and energy caged and awaiting release.

 

 Stiles eyed him carefully before suggesting, “do you, uh, need to _run_ or something? You seem a little…wired.”

 

 Peter glanced to him, before turning his eyes back to the road. They’d left the heart of _Lake Grove_ and were following the road that wound up higher into the mountains. “I was about to say the same of you, you were in your element in there, weren’t you?”

 

 The way he spoke, slow and soft but with an edge of mischief that made Stiles’s stomach tighten. Stiles thought about his conversation with Scott a few days ago, about how he had been hoping someone would tell him this connection he felt to Peter was wrong, and when no one had, there was nothing in his way.

 

 There was electricity between them, he’d felt it even sitting next to him in the _Lake Grove_ pack house’s reception room. It was like static crawling up Stiles’s skin, making the little hairs prickle in anticipation for whatever Peter did next.

 

 “You sound impressed,” Stiles mused, reaching to switch the radio to another station. To his disappointment, Peter didn’t so much as twitch when he left it on an old country song. He had yet to find a station Peter truly objected to, which was more than likely because he knew what game Stiles was playing.

 

 “You are incredibly impressive when you’re all business,” Peter replied smoothly, without looking away from the road. “Your frenetic energy is a breath of fresh air to someone such as myself, but when you are determined, with your mind set on something, you make quite the stirring picture.”

 

 Stiles hesitated. “Stirring?”

 

 “Attractive,” Peter confirmed, with a tone full of meaning and careful seduction. “I’ve always liked you, Stiles.”

 

 All of a sudden, Stiles was starkly reminded of the night Peter had captured his wrist, had held his thumb against his pulse and had spoken smoothly to the inside of his palm like it was a dark promise. His heart, his lower body had throbbed then and not only in fear. It did the same now. He looked away quickly.

 

 He wasn’t the same naïve, star-struck virgin or clueless teen he’d been back then. He was an adult, he’d been to college, he had a job, he’d had boyfriends and girlfriends. But it was exactly as Scott had said, Peter made him feel like he was sixteen years old and hungry for something he didn’t quite understand but wanted all the more for it.

 

 “I know you likely want to be home to enjoy the rest of your time off, but those snow clouds look very heavy,” Peter said warily. “We don’t want to get stranded in the mountains with a snowfall that heavy.”

 

 Stiles sighed, but even his inferior sight could see the thick white billowing clouds that crowned the mountains up ahead. He wriggled his phone out of his jeans pocket and flicked through _Google Maps_.

 

 “There’s an inn about three miles west.” He winced. “Looks pricey though.”

 

 It was the skiing season he supposed, and the picturesque, leafy valley town right below the mountains must have been prime for it. Looking at the pictures of the rustic, restored cabin style beauty of the inn on his phone though, he couldn’t help but feel it catered to romantic getaways more than skiing holidays.

 

 “I’m sure I can foot the bill, it’s not the way I pictured our first weekend getaway but the location is idyllic,” Peter mused, taking the turning in the direction Stiles had indicated. 

 

 Stiles started at the longing sound in Peter’s voice. “If I thought there was any way you could’ve had power over the weather, I’d say you planned this.” Stiles said accusingly, without any real heat.

 

 Peter grinned. “Well, it’s true these matters should be dealt with quickly to avoid skirmishes with other packs, but I may have seen the weather forecast and thought that we could take advantage of it.”

 

 “We? Or you?” Stiles said, even though the air in the car felt just a little close.

 

 “Well that depends,” Peter said ruefully, “do you want a double or a twin room?”

 

 Regaining a little of his equilibrium at the teasing note to Peter’s voice, Stiles retorted, “I suppose you think I’m really that easy? Pull the old ‘only a double room’ left trick and get me to drop my pants?”

 

 Peter clucked his tongue. “Don’t be gauche. I am much more practiced in the art of seduction.”

 

*

 

 Peter passed Stiles his credit card without a second thought and went to park the car while Stiles went in to try and get a room, so he couldn’t really blame Peter for the utter cliché that was the situation. There _was_ only a deluxe queen room left.  

 

 “I can sleep on the floor if that bothers you,” Peter said gallantly, “I’ve slept in worse conditions, in a hospital, in the _ground_.” He smiled apologetically when Stiles paused in inspecting the admittedly luxurious suite. “Sorry, that was in poor taste.”

 

 Stiles rolled his eyes. “I think the pair of us are, to be fair. It’s probably why everyone thinks we’re in the middle of some sort of werewolf courtship.”

 

 Peter inclined his head slightly, but there was a knowing look on his face. This one wasn’t smug or even particularly pleased. It was like he was staring into Stiles’s eyes in the intimate warm light of the room and seeing things Stiles had never shared with anyone, the good and the bad and he wasn’t shying away from any of it.

 

 Stiles drew in a little breath at the sudden realisation, at the sudden recollection of the only other time he’d felt like that…

 

 When he’d been struggling to come to terms with the nogitsune and all that had happened and he’d been trying to piece together what was left of his life. He’d been plodding through for months, with everyone saying how well he was doing and giving him those cheering smiles that Stiles felt were a lie. Because he wasn’t doing well, he was drowning, he was in chaos inside, barely holding it together and then at a pack meeting one day, Peter had met his eyes across the room, all barriers down and he’d known that he wasn’t alone.

 

 It hadn’t been the low, heated pulse he felt between them now, not for years but there had been an understanding that only two people who had felt isolation and blood-thirst could share. Over the years they had shared looks, sarcastic quips, Peter had even stepped into the kitchen to help him with the food the last time he’d hosted Thanksgiving for everyone and his dad had been called out unexpectedly.

 

 It was only then, remembering all of that, remembering the way it’d felt for Peter to stand next to him, doing something as inconsequential as stirring gravy, that he realised when it’d all started. He realised that was when he’d felt the spark that changed their comfortable understanding into interest.

 

 “I…I’m just gonna shower,” Stiles said, gesturing a little wildly. “I still smell of work and travelling. I mean, if that’s okay? Unless you wanted to…?” He trailed off but Peter had that familiar look of amusement again as he shook his head.

 

 “You go ahead, I’ll order us up some food that doesn’t come from a gas station.”

 

 Stiles ran the shower until his skin was pink-hot and his head giddy. He felt more awake though as he towelled off and swiped the mirror so that he could consider his flushed reflection. He grabbed one of the complimentary robes off the back of the door, so busy marvelling at the quality of the ensuite that the full implications of stepping into the next room, wearing only a robe, with Peter Hale in there hadn’t hit him until he’d already opened the door.

 

 Peter was standing out on the small balcony and the cool air whipped in and nipped at Stiles’s bare, damp toes. He shivered and Peter turned immediately. “I’m sorry,” he said as he closed the balcony doors. “I was just seeing if I could get a view of the mountains. It looks like the snow has settled in up there and is heading this way.”

 

 Stiles sighed. “I’ll have to text my dad, then try and call work, let them know I’ll need an extra few days off. Warren should cover for me, he owes me for a few shifts.” There was a large tray on the rustic wooden chest at the end of the bed and Stiles headed toward it, as if drawn by his nose.

 

 “You don’t sound entirely displeased at the thought of being stuck here for a few days,” Peter ventured carefully.

 

 “That’s because I just smelled the food,” Stiles laughed, lifting the cover off the tray and already exploring the offerings. “Staying in a fancy place like this on your dollar doesn’t sound too shabby to me. Yeah, it’d be good if I had an _Xbox_ but, hey, there are worse places to be snowed-in.”

 

 He looked up when Peter’s shadow fell over him and saw piercing blue eyes that reflected the light from the expensive electric flame-effect fireplace, staring down at him considering.

 

 “And you’re not opposed to the company.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.

 

 Stiles licked his lips, conscious of the droplet of water that had trickled down the side of his nose to catch there. “It’s not…unwelcome,” he admitted quietly. When the moment that followed dragged out too long, he broke it by drawing the tray up with him to carry it over to the small wooden table and chair tucked in the corner.

 

 Stiles didn’t even realise he’d fallen asleep in the armchair after their meal, until he blinked his eyes open with a little jerk to find Peter staring at the dazzlingly realistic artificial flames in the carved fireplace. He watched him for some time, stared at those long fingers caressing his chin absently. The stubble under his fingertips was as well-groomed as ever, his hair slightly damp to signal he’d showered while Stiles had slept. He looked well-kept, put together, calmly pensive, but it was what was inside that held Stiles’s attention in that moment.

 

 Peter didn’t look scheming or concerned or lonely, he looked, content, perhaps, if a little thoughtful. He looked younger than Stiles had ever seen him. Relaxed.

 

 “It doesn’t bother you?” Stiles asked softly, “the fire?”

 

 Peter looked at him thoughtfully before offering an open, wistful smile. Of course, he’d probably known Stiles was waking long before Stiles even had.

 

 “It makes me think of them sometimes, but over the years I’ve taught myself to associate it with good memories, not the most obvious, less pleasant ones.”

 

 Stiles winced, sitting up straighter in his chair and finding himself covered with one of the top blankets from the bed. He stared at it, worrying the hem with his fingers as he tried to reconcile the Peter Hale he’d set on fire almost a decade ago to the one who had put a blanket over him to keep him warm. The one he was attracted to, the one who had understood him when he thought he’d been losing his mind.

 

 “I don’t think I ever apologised,” Stiles said, “for the Molotov cocktail?”

 

 “Yes, well, it was hardly an enjoyable reminder of my worst nightmare, but I can’t say I didn’t deserve it,” Peter said simply but apparently he could sense Stiles’s turmoil because he added, less flippantly, “That was another time, Stiles. It was literally another _lifetime_ for me. Don’t think on it, it’s certainly not something I think about, not even when I look into the fire.”

 

 Relaxing a little, Stiles pulled the corner of the sheet around him a little more. “So, what do you think about? What happy memories do you have?”

 

 Turning his gaze back to the flames, which made his eyes shadowed and glittering all at once, Peter thought for a moment. The burnt orange glow was the only light in the room and it caressed his handsome profile so that Stiles’s stomach clenched.

 

 “We used to have bonfires at pack gatherings, especially on full moons. It was a social thing, associated with warmth. There was a large, bespoke fireplace in the main lounge at Hale House, we spent every Christmas morning round it, every Thanksgiving…”

 

 Stiles could practically see the memories of shrieking nieces and nephews on Christmas morning, languid, lazy Thanksgiving evenings with family reflected in Peter’s eyes. It was amazing how enduring human nature was, or werewolf nature he supposed, to be able to heal to a place where you could concentrate on the good, even if the bad memories never really went away. They just haunted you a little less each day.

 

 “My dad couldn’t even talk about my mom for the longest time,” Stiles admitted, looking into the fireplace too now, spreading out his cramped legs so that his toes gripped the edge of the table. “I think some of the reason he buried himself in work and whisky was because I looked so much like her, you know?” But he’d dragged himself out of it, for Stiles in the end and that was all that mattered.

 

 “I used to hate all the photos on the wall. As a kid I used to close my eyes as I walked down the hall so I wouldn’t see them but now…now I look for them, you now? It’s not because I don’t miss her or I’ve gotten over it in time it’s just…like you said, you remember the good things and try not to focus on the bad, where you can.”

 

 The good thing about such luxurious hospitality venues in ideal holiday destinations was room service were generally helpful, Stiles realised. Peter ordered some earl grey tea, which Stiles hadn’t had since his mom was alive but while they drank they spoke of lighter things. They talked about Stiles’s job, his dad, about Derek and Cora and how Peter was considering buying the coffee and bookstore downtown that he frequented since the owner was retiring.

 

 “I’ve always liked books, Derek too. Perhaps I’ll bring him in on it, it can be a family business,” Peter mused.

 

 “Well you have to do something, idle hands and all that,” Stiles said, sipping the last of his tea and tucking his bare feet under himself to warm them.

 

 “Yes, it was always the same when I was a child. I was quite the scamp.” Peter grinned. “From what I’ve seen, you know something about that.”

 

 “You know I spoke to Scott about you,” Stiles admitted, “he basically implied the same thing, that we were very similar.”

 

 “And yet different enough to make it interesting,” Peter replied by way of agreement, his eyes scanning Stiles from head to toe before he added, “you spoke to Scott?”

 

 It was a tone trying for casual indifference, Stiles thought, his guard rising just a little in preparation for the answer. Stiles couldn’t respond to that automatic defence reflex in any other way but with the truth.

 

 “I guess I was looking for someone to make me see sense.”

 

 “And?”

 

 Stiles stared right into his eyes, so that there could be no doubt, so that Peter knew he wasn’t afraid, of him, of his past or anything else, except perhaps for what could happen once Stiles admitted how he felt. “That you and I make sensem, in a weird, really scary but amazing way.”

 

 Peter inclined his head to regard him with a warm expression. “You have a fascinating way with words, sweetheart. But then, I find every inch of you fascinating.” He rose then, and Stiles was hyperaware that he was only wearing low-riding sweatpants, the rest of him bare for Stiles to see.

 

 He couldn’t help but look, drink in every tight cord of muscle, every smattering of hair by the firelight. He only realised he was staring when his head tilted up automatically because Peter had come to stand right in front of him, was looking down into his eyes.

 

 Peter was right there, above him and Stiles’s heart was hammering so fast, his lips parted around too-shallow breaths. He moistened his dry lips, watched Peter’s gaze follow the movement and shuddered when the backs of Peter’s fingers brushed against the edge of his jaw, the moles on cheekbone and the light sheen of stubble brewing there.

 

 “I believe I was meant to be seducing you, but you are the one that has charmed me tonight.”

 

 Snow was falling outside the windows, creating a curtain around this intimate place they’d found in each other. Stiles realised for the first time that he’d been searching to ensure himself that everyone would be okay with this, but what really mattered was the two of them. Only the two of them.

 

 Peter’s fingertips slid to caress Stiles’s ear, his cheek, his thumb ghosting over his parted lips.

 

 “Do you really want to sleep on the floor?” Stiles asked with a playful light in his eyes, voice a little breathy.

 

 Peter lifted his brows in an almost challenge and stepped back toward the bed, but Stiles didn’t let him. He surged after him, catching Peter’s wrist and lunging for him with all the ferocity as if _he_ were the wolf. Peter was stronger, bulkier but Stiles had caught him off guard and nearly toppled him with his voracity.

 

 Their mouths crashed together in wet hunger, stubble scraping, Stiles’s fingers holding Peter’s face, digging in without really meaning to, not letting him budge. Peter gripped his hair tight, tugging once until Stiles grunted into his mouth in a mixture of discomfort and pleasure, eagerness. He sank his fingers into Peter’s hair too to hold them together, both of them fighting to hold each other tighter.

 

 Stiles panted into Peter’s mouth, forgetting how to kiss, how to _breathe_ as their tongues touched and their bodies undulated together inelegantly where they stood. Stiles’s fingers dipped beneath the waistband of his pants to dig into the firm tight globes of his ass. Peter hummed in appreciation into the kiss, tilting his head to deepen the contact between their mouths. His fingers tugged Stiles’s hair firmly then, tugging their lips apart wetly so that Stiles’s head was caught to one side, mouth kiss-bruised and damp and the long line of his throat exposed.

 

 “As flattering as your eagerness is,” Peter murmured huskily against the shell of his ear, letting his breath steam up the flesh there until Stiles squirmed where he stood. “Let’s slow this down, hmm? Let me enjoy you.”

 

 Stiles’s body practically _hummed_ at those words and his head spun, giddy through lack of oxygen. Peter’s stubble grazed the line of his throat, the burn soothed away by the soft, sensuous caress of a wet tongue and barely-there kisses. The grasp on his hair eased slightly into soft, massaging fingertips when Stiles didn’t struggle to move, just curled his fingers into Peter’s shoulders like an anchor and pressed in tight to Peter’s body.

 

 His cock was firming up, caught between his body and Peter’s and he could feel an answering hardness against his thigh where Peter held him close. Peter’s teeth caught at a sensitive spot on the hollow of his neck he never knew he had and he arched for more without inhibition. Peter’s sharp teeth nipped just under his chin where he was soft and sensitive. It was slow though, like Peter had all the time in the world. Every scant inch of flesh was sucked and scratched and touched like it had never been before.

 

Stiles had done things, done a lot, actually but it had never been like this. He’d never been the subject of worship before, never had someone like Peter devouring him like he had hung the moon. He felt shaky with it. He was spiralling like he was drunk on sensation and every time his heart ticked or his body tightened at a particularly tender spot, Peter chuckled softly against his skin or murmured little platitudes that made his cock throb and his mouth dry.

 

 Little, teasing, appreciative phrases like, “look at you, so good for me” and “you’re so sweet.”

 

 It was almost too much, but only almost. But before he melted entirely under the heat, he needed Peter to know, to not take his relaxation, his trust or submission for surrender. He’d been with assertive women and men before but it had never been this intoxicating, they’d never been through the things he and Peter had together. They’d never been Peter, who was so much more powerful than Stiles in every way that Stiles had to make sure he knew, whoever took charge tonight and any night to follow, it wasn’t because he took it, because Stiles was scared or tricked or weak. It was because he wanted him to.

 

 Mind buzzing, he let one of his hands slide down off Peter’s shoulder to his collarbone, where he pushed gently and stepped back at the same time. To his credit, Peter let him go without complaint, even though his eyes looked wild and dark, his hair dishevelled and his face as flushed as Stiles was sure he was.

 

 Stiles held his gaze even as he struggled to steady his breathing, even as he felt tingling all over every place Peter’s mouth had touched. He stared right into Peter’s eyes so he knew and shed the soft white bathrobe without an ounce of meekness.

 

 “Are you displaying for me, sweetheart?” Peter breathed, sliding leisurely back onto the bed.

 

 Stiles didn’t move. “Is that what happens next, in a werewolf courtship?” Stiles asked, teasing, even in spite of all the raspy lust in his voice.

 

 Peter’s eyes seemed to blaze at that, at the thought that Stiles might want to play those little games, perhaps at the realisation that he had someone who knew about the supernatural here and didn’t have to hold back. No secrets, no hiding. Everything laid bare.

 

 “You want me to show you how to do this the wolf way?” Peter’s voice was low and rumbling and it tugged at places inside Stiles that made him actually hurt with want.

 

 “Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah I want that.” He’d been a part of this for so long that it felt like this was his culture, his way and he wanted it like that, the way Peter was telling him with his eyes. Eyes that flared dazzling, supernatural blue in the low light. A purring, rumbling growl filled the room, almost subvocal but reaching into Stiles’s very bones and Peter _slid_ of the bed with the sensuous movements of a hypnotising serpent rather than a wolf.

 

 “We go slow,” Peter said, voice heavy with suggestive promise. “So slow you think you’ll go mad with it, no sudden movements.” He picked out one of the bottles of water from the mini bar and took a deep drink from it, before returning to Stiles. He paced slowly behind him in a semi-circle, effectively trapping a very willing Stiles between the bed without even touching him.

 

 Stiles never turned to look at Peter, kept his back to him but he did twist his head slightly when he caught Peter in his peripheral vision. He focussed on Peter’s slow pacing, his stalking, waiting for the attack.

 

 It never came.

 

 Peter didn’t lunge at him. He stepped in close to his back, almost supernatural heat radiating from his body and making Stiles feel like he was about to melt. Stiles turned his head slightly, wondering if he could see if Peter’s eyes were beta blue and that’s when Peter’s left hand slide around his throat from behind, cautious, feather-light as if in question. There, he gently cupped Stiles, guiding his jaw as his other hand tipped the bottle of water to Stiles’s lips.

 

 Stiles started at first, confused before he let instinct take him. It made sense. Being provided for, cared, for, courted by a werewolf whose instincts were so close to the surface. He felt like collapsing at the unexpected relief it brought, knowing for the first time in his adult life that someone was going to take care of everything and he could just feel.

 

 He drank awkwardly and after a few gasping mouthfuls Peter dropped the empty bottle. He chased the stray, escaped droplets down Stiles’s jawline, across the corner of his mouth without ever releasing his throat.

 

 There he squeezed gently, like a question, a werewolf’s plea for trust, perhaps, a show that he was worth it. Stiles stretched an arm back to grasp at him in answer, in agreement. Peter caught his wrist before it reached back beyond his shoulder, holding it so Stiles could just about see Peter’s fangs in close proximity to it.

 

 “No sudden movements,” Peter reminded him in a whisper against his pulse before he sucked gently, letting his fangs _just_ hint at his skin. Then Peter guided Stiles’s arm back down into place at his side, allowing his fingers to _trickle_ across Stiles’s hip, the tight, tense muscle of Stiles’s heaving stomach. Peter’s still blunt human nails scraped through Stiles’s pubic hair and Stiles stood there and cried out, let it happen. A high yet guttural groan-gasp escaped him as Peter’s fingers encircled his cock, giving it a languid, unhurried stroke before squeezing just under the head.

 

 Stiles _writhed_ , feeling the presence but never any pressure of fangs against his neck, groaning deep in his throat when Peter’s thumb smeared his clear pre-emission across his own tongue. He sucked the digit in readily, panted when Peter’s thumb pressed down slightly, tugged his mouth open and kept it there, not so much as allowing Stiles to suck it as his own tongue flickered in briefly, tasting Stiles for the first time from within his mouth. The thought made Stiles’s eyes shutter closed and his chest heaved, dappled with sweat when Peter urged him onto the bed.

 

 As soon as his torso hit the sheets, however, he turned, or tried to, letting out a gasp of surprise as Peter nosed at the nape of his neck, his entire body covering Stiles’s without pressing down.

 

 “Tell me to stop, if you want,” Peter murmured against his skin, even as he nuzzled just at the base of his skull, at his still damp hair. Stiles squirmed but didn’t say anything else, only pressed his cock subtly into the mattress and let his eyes fall shut in acceptance, a kind of relaxation into the pleasure without any thought or fear or reservation.

 

 “Next time you can show me how humans make love,” Peter all-but purred in his ear, nipping gently at the base of his neck, then his ear, then his shoulder. They weren’t exactly kisses, it was intimate nuzzling, brushes of his nose and lips without kissing and the occasional scrape of fang or stubble. Stiles shivered under the scrutiny, feeling every fibre of his skin come to life as if he were the match and Peter the friction needed to light it. He was on fire, grinding shamelessly against the bed as Peter bit gently at the top of his ass.

 

 Claws brushed questioningly along the inside of his thigh and Stiles slowly, carefully edged one knee forward under him, face burning even as his cock leaked wetly between his belly and the bed. His arms were in front of him and he pressed his forehead to them, just feeling it. He shook with the intensity as Peter’s claws tickled the arch of his foot, the sensitive tendons at the backs of his ankle and the inside of his knee like a final assurance.

 

 He was almost flat to the bed, his drawn up knee creating a little gap between him and the bed so that just the head of his cock touched the damp sheets beneath. Then he felt Peter’s teeth, _just_ grazing the top of his ass, hot breath steaming over the valley between his cheeks and making him jerk in anticipation. Then Peter’s hands were spreading him open and his tongue swept up the pink cleft of his ass.

 

 Stiles pressed his forehead hard into his folded arms and cried out, hips jerking forward on instinct, rolling back eagerly as if afraid Peter would take that as a refusal.

 

 He was too into it now to find words. He swore he heard a husky chuckle though, _felt_ it against the globes of his ass. Peter bit at one cheek in reprimand for moving, before sucking a soft wet apology against the tender spot. He nibbled as his perineum before coming right back up to slurp messily at his entrance.

 

 Stiles gave a dry sob. His entire body was pulsing as readily as his tight pucker and he felt as if he were undulating with the current of heat running unendingly between Peter and him. Peter was _devouring_ him, making the most debauched sounds as he tasted him deep, pushed his tongue passed his softening muscles that hadn’t seen any action in so long.

 

 Stiles rocked with the little pulses of his tongue, the long sucking kisses along the line down to his balls and right back up again to his twitching hole. He rutted the sticky, sensitive head of his cock against the sheets until it almost hurt with the constant friction against the weeping slit but he didn’t stop.

 

 He was making the most mortifying, short, soft little panting moans that spilled from his open mouth unbidden. He couldn’t help them and Peter moaned hungrily into his body, drunk on it all. It wasn’t just about sex, it was about being utterly consumed by someone, on fire with their touch and driven to a point where he was limp and free and famished all at once.

 

 Peter pushed up then, staring down at his parted, soaked, shuddering hole as he breathed hard. Stiles made to turn, wanting to see the look on his face but then he felt Peter drag the heavy weight of his cock along the slippery, tenderised skin behind his balls. He was wet all over, spittle clinging to his tight balls and trickling down his heavy cock to mingle with the beading pre-emission.

 

 The ridge of Peter’s cock caught on Stiles’s swollen entrance on the second pass and he shuddered, squirming to pull his other knee up under him. Before he could push up onto his hands and knees though, Peter was on him. He covered Stiles’s back entirely, chest pressing hard to him, sweat making them stick and slide and Peter’s mouth was at his ear, nipping _just_ too hard, sucking and then biting again, panting into his ear like he had to breathe Stiles in to live.

 

 His hand slid round to cup Stiles’s jaw, tipped his head back so that breathing was laboured through his taut, arched throat. Stiles slid his tongue out to lap at the thumb hovering below his lower lip and was rewarded by the pad skirting over his teeth. Stiles nipped at it before sucking it into his mouth, all while Peter fucked the soaked crease of his ass, squeezed Stiles to the mattress just enough for his cock to catch between it and his belly.

 

 They writhed there together in long, languid thrusts. Every now and again Peter’s tip caught on the give of Stiles’s hole, pressing against the muscles, testing them before letting the resistance push him back up along the path between his cheeks, grinding there until Stiles gave a throaty gasp.

 

 “Come on, come on, come on,” he breathed, half-delirious. “In me. Fucking _in me_. Just the tip, _please_ …”

 

 There was a low growl of breathless laughter in his ear. “Just the tip?” Peter teased.

 

 Stiles didn’t see the joke at that point. He squirmed, letting out a startled cry of pleasure and disappointment both when the head notched against his entrance again, before grinding upward to the dimple above his ass. He could feel Peter’s sticky pre-emission mingling with the spit there now and the thought of what it would look like, swollen and needy and twitching only made him clench his eyes shut tighter.

 

 “Just the tip, come on, I need…”

 

 Peter covered his mouth to silence him and Stiles inhaled noisily through his nose, biting his protest against Peter’s palm. “I know what you need, sweetheart,” Peter almost purred. “You’ve never been the centre of anyone’s world, have you? Yet you’ve never once complained.” Not to his father, who loved him more than the earth but still had his job and before that his mom. Not to Scott, who had unwittingly discovered Allison and his pack and Kira, not to the boyfriends and girlfriends who had never been able to satisfy his unspoken needs.

 

 Peter knew it all, without Stiles ever saying a word, because, perhaps, he felt the same.

 

 “You’re so sweet, aren’t you? Mischievous but so selfless. But it’s okay to like the attention, Stiles, and you do, don’t you?” He fucked between Stiles’s cheeks, letting his thrusts catch against the back of his balls on every other thrust now and bearing further into Stiles’s back to pin him to the sheets, to let Stiles feel every inch of his skin covered and touched by Peter’s body in some way or another. To feel connected.

 

 When Peter’s hand twitched down, perhaps to touch somewhere else, Stiles’s hand scrambled to cover his, to keep it on his throat, just holding there. A wolf thing, or maybe just a Peter thing, it made Stiles’s cock throb and his body relax like a kitten with its scruff caught in an adult cat’s mouth. He didn’t have to explain it though, Peter’s fingers just held him, under Stiles’s still, holding hands over his throat and he nuzzled in appreciation at Stiles’s abused ear.

 

 “You’re so curious to know what else I can show you, where I can take you. But it’s not just about sex, is it?”

 

 Stiles shuddered.

 

 “Do you want someone to look after you, Stiles?” Peter pressed his forehead to the back of Stiles’s damp hair. “Do you want to be sweet for me? Even after we leave here?”

 

 There was no hint of inhibition left in Stiles’s body, it was as if every limb was molten with arousal and trust and relaxation but need as well. He knew that he could have this tonight and nothing more or he could have so much more.

 

 He wondered how long Peter had been watching him in their interactions, their passing conversations or pack meetings or near death experiences for him to know Stiles so well. Then Stiles understood. Peter wasn’t the same as him exactly, he didn’t want devoted attention the same way Stiles did, he wanted to have it through lavishing it on his lover, spoiling Stiles until they were drunk on each other. It was its own need for devotion, he supposed and he guessed that Peter had never had that either.

 

 Peter’s free hand moved between them, guiding his cock to Stiles’s hole again and just holding there. “You can have just the tip, sweetheart, or you can have it all.” Peter wasn’t talking about his cock though, was he? He wanted to know as readily as Stiles did if after they left here, there would be no more, that this was all they would have.

 

 Stiles exhaled slowly, raggedly. “Everything,” Stiles panted. “Give me everything.” Not _take it,_ give it, share it. He thought, and by the soft kiss at his nape, that Peter understood the difference.

 

 Peter pushed up off him then, leaving him bereft and confused. Stiles went to push up to look for him, but before he could organise his limbs into movement Peter had flipped him onto his back and brought their lips together. It was slow again, long glides of their slick cocks together and their mouths almost inebriated and lazy. Stiles tilted his head to press deeper up into Peter’s mouth, but as he made to move his arms up from between them to pull Peter closer, he felt Peter press a tube between his fingers.

 

 Peter licked at the parted bow of his lips before massaging them with his own. “You or me?” he asked between kisses. It took Stiles a moment for his brain to catch up through the rush of arousal pounding thickly in his ears. The idea of both was intoxicating. In the end though, he felt how pliant and needy his body was and answered without really needing to consider the fact that there would be many more times after this. “Me. In me.”

 

 Peter hummed his approval and kissed him a final time before flicking the cap off the lube without even retrieving the tube from Stiles’s hands. He shouldered one of Stiles’s knees up and teased the clenching muscle with his fingertip in flickering little circles before pushing in. It slid in to the knuckle as easily as a knife into butter. The second joined it just as easily, his muscles tired and soft and so wet, even more wet now, lubricating oil spreading through him with slow dips inside.

 

 Stiles nuzzled at Peter’s throat this time, feeling high with the sensations rushing through him, the closeness, intimacy. He felt as much of a wolf as Peter then, free to just move with his instincts and fall apart underneath Peter, _with_ him. “Oh God,” he whispered as he pressed his nose, his lips to the hollow of Peter’s throat, grazed the stubbly jaw with his teeth. “Come on, I’m hardly a virgin, fuck me. I want you to, _please_.”

 

 Peter growled in a mixture of jealousy and need, Stiles thought, and the quick withdrawal of his fingers left Stiles feeling open and cool inside. He gasped, pressing his forehead into Peter’s cheek and urging one knee over Peter’s shoulder entirely, opening himself up and hooking the fingers of one hand behind Peter’s strong, muscled neck to hold their faces close. This close he could smell Peter’s faint, natural cologne, feel his breath and taste his mouth, his scent as readily as Peter could his.

 

 “Show me,” Stiles urged him. Show him how he would be with a wolf, how much he wanted Stiles, how good it could be. All of it. He shifted his head just enough without breaking contact so he could look up into Peter’s eyes, nowhere to hide, closer to him than he’d ever been with anyone else.

 

 Their foreheads and noses touched as Stiles reached down awkwardly between them. He gave Peter’s thick shaft a long stroke, smearing the lubricant there a bit more, relishing in the heavy weight of wet soft velvet heat and the unfamiliar movement of foreskin over the hardness of it. He pressed the broad, hard tip to his tired, hungry hole again and urged it in.

 

 It was Peter that exhaled low and shaky between their mouths as the head slid inside, the tight clasp of Stiles’s heat gripping him just beneath the head. He fucked Stiles’s shallowly, wetly, making the lube sound slickly in the quiet space around them. Stiles threaded his fingers through Peter’s hair where they held him in close and groaned softly as Peter sank into him.

 

 He was so wet and relaxed and soft down there, the inevitable burn took his breath away but it was such a good ache that he had to turn his head sideways in an effort to both escape and hold himself in the overwhelming pleasure. The intimacy.

 

 There was only a hint of a graze to his prostate but it was enough. He was so keyed up, he jerked and Peter pressed in closer, his weight enough to hold Stiles still, hold him close and safe as he lost it. He let out a high panting sound as Peter sank so deep into him he swore he felt himself being remade inside and he clenched on instinct. So full, so close and so full he would never be empty again. It might have induced panic if he hadn’t wanted it so badly.

 

 “So sweet, so, so sweet,” Peter mumbled nonsensically against his hairline, urging Stiles’s face back toward him and kissing the corner of his mouth briefly. His tongue flickered at the slightly parted lips, at his cheek, as his jaw, nipping and kissing briefly in almost maddening impulse as he drew back out, only to sink back in to the hilt.

 

Stiles felt coiled tight and unable to draw in much breath, trapped as he was in this position. His panic attacks were a distant memory, this breathlessness carrying with it a kind of freedom. All the same, the burn was still prominent. He squeezed his free hand between them, just the tips of his fingers fanning against the taut, lightly haired muscles of Peter’s abdomen.

 

 Peter hummed in question. “Going too fast for you, sweetheart?” It was husky but enquiring, not mocking, just full of quiet wonder. Stiles hesitated, then remembered there was no room for lies with a werewolf lover. He nodded with a rough skip of breath, eyes still closed, enjoying the feeling even in spite of the overwhelming fullness, the ache.

 

 “Thick,” he managed, “so…just…” But Peter had already stilled. He reached down, smearing a thick, copious handful of lube over his shaft, over Stiles’s hole and then Stiles let his lower body stretch. His legs slid off Peter’s shoulders to wrap around his waist instead and with the movement he rocked himself a little, fucking himself, working the tender ring of his muscles around just the head of Peter’s cock.

 

 Peter shuddered, bracing himself on the bed either side of his head, claws digging in the sheets as he forced himself to remain still. Stiles’s eyes were open now, watching his tense expression. He knew that was the best bit, just behind the head, the little tug at the line of flesh below the slit. He clenched and relaxed, sucking Peter into himself.

 

 On the next circle of his hips, Peter’s tip drew out entirely, and when Stiles sank onto him again it brought with it a thick globule of lube and a dirty slick sound that was loud even to him, sticky and wet. He arched, taking Peter deeper, body bowed and aching with exertion at the awkward angle but unable to let go of it. Right there, right _there_. He took Peter his way, taking charge and Peter shuddered in the effort to remain still, werewolf or not.

 

 “Just the tip?” Stiles panted, mischievous as he let his entrance suckle on a few more shallow thrusts before fucking himself in deeper, longer strides.

 

 Peter’s eyes opened then and he wrapped his arms round Stiles’s shoulders to hold their torsos together through the undulating movements of Stiles’s body. He let his hips twitch once, twice, going balls deep with the help of Stiles’s long rocking motions and then he moved in earnest. He rocked with Stiles’s movements, languid, deep and hard, chasing the little noises Stiles’s made with his tongue and swallowing them greedily.

 

 “Everything,” Peter echoed him. “Every day, until we forget what it was like not to have this.”

 

 All of this, the connection, the understanding, the knowledge that there was so much more to learn from each other and there was nothing but time to find it all.

 

 Stiles kept his body arched, rocking up, and Peter’s hands slid down his back to cup his hips, hold him at the angle he was trying to reach. “Just there? Where you’re coiled tight?” Peter asked, pushing down so each hastening thrust grinded against the softly pulsing dip of flesh.

 

 Stiles dug his heels into the apex of Peter’s ass, grinding himself up at the perfect angle and growling nonsense into the narrow spade between their bodies.

 

 “Fuck, please,” he choked out, everything in him tight and shaking. He wanted to reach down for his cock but he didn’t want to let go of Peter and didn’t want Peter to let go of him. He hung over the precipice of orgasm and felt everything pulse with the heat of it, felt his blood burn heavy and hot. He glutted himself on Peter’s cock and fucked up into every thrust, so sore and tender and hungry for more.

 

 “…mark you up inside,” Peter panted against his neck, sucking bruising kisses into his skin. “Fill you, mate you. Can I?” For all his strength Peter was as breathless as he, as affected by the closeness, by all of it.

 

 Stiles was so hot he thought his skin was on fire with sweat. He nodded jerkily, never stopping. He could see the wolf behind Peter’s eyes, knew he was getting everything he had, as readily as Stiles was giving himself. He felt the connection, what it was to humans and werewolves. He licked his lips and Peter chased the motion with a sharp swipe of his own tongue and oh God he swore he could feel Peter under his ribcage at this angle.

 

 “Yeah, breed me, go on, inside…”

 

 Peter’s hips stuttered a bruising, unrelenting beat against his ass, noisy and hard and making him the centre of everything. Through it, Peter watched him, eyes glazed like Stiles more than any sensation he chased was what ushered him over the edge. Like Stiles was the centre of his world. He fucked Stiles through his orgasm, jerking a few times and smoothing his hands up and down Stiles’s chest, raising little prickling tingles all over as Stiles’s own end approached.

 

 He was so relieved when Peter didn’t stop, when he kept fucking through it all and edging that tight little spot that made Stiles pulse.

 

 “Can I stay inside?” Peter murmured huskily, leaning back on his haunches and tugging Stiles’s hips with him to keep their bodies connected. It left Stiles sprawled beneath him and his ass close to the embrace of Peter’s hips, propped up on his thighs. “I want to feel you from the inside when you come.”

 

 “Uhh,” Stiles gasped out nonsensically, twisting his head to the side into the sheets as Peter’s fingers wrapped around his throbbing hardness. So close, so close, so close…

 

 “Hold yourself open, let yourself feel it,” Peter whispered, voice hoarse from his own pleasure as he stroked him, twisting his wrist at the end of every stroke. His thrusts were shallow and steady now, grinding just against that place inside for Stiles. Stiles spread his own cheeks, fingers teasing at the drenched, deliciously sore place Peter was still buried inside. “Feel how sloppy you are?” Peter hummed admiringly. “How soft and open? You’re so pink and sore, aren’t you?”

 

 Stiles was _soaring_. He felt his mind buzzing. So close.

 

 “...you like it sore though, don’t you? Just that little bit too much?”

 

 He curled his fingers, dug them into his spread cheeks, trying to explain, let Peter know what he wanted. “Hold me down,” he gasped, “please.” He felt in that instant he might fly apart without it. “Anchor me,” he managed and unwittingly, he’d found the exact right words.

 

 Peter cupped his throat so gently, as if he were so precious and tender, as if Peter were appreciating his every throb of breath and swallow and pulse. His thumb caressed Stiles’s lower lip, tugging down gently and Stiles’s hands flew up to hold his fingers in place, mindlessly needing to show his appreciation, how perfect it was. He clenched tight around Peter as he spilled himself over his fist.

 

 Everything was a little blurry after that. He blinked blearily when Peter wiped the stickiness from their bodies, watched Peter through a haze as he took a swig from another bottle of water before urging it into Stiles’s hands. When Stiles had drunk most of it, Peter spooned up behind him. Stiles felt a low hum in his own throat when Peter urged his upmost leg forward and spread him open.

 

 “Hmm?” Stiles tried to ask.

 

 “You’re so pink down there, leaking me, open…” He sounded awed.

 

 Stiles hummed again but there was a little laugh mingled with it too. “Pervert.”

 

 Peter drew the blanket up over them and stroked Stiles’s chest almost apologetically, as if he’d been unable to help himself before. “I think I should get you into a shower soon.”

 

 “Not yet,” Stiles mumbled, a little too quickly, a little slurred and a little too shattered in the most perfect way. He felt so warm and spent and loose everywhere. He closed his eyes at the feeling of Peter brushing the scruff at his chin against Stiles’s shoulder. Words tumbled over his lips, slightly dazed and quiet and almost sleepy. “Oh man, let’s do that again and again and other stuff, like, not just kinky stuff, but like it when you cooked with me before and your car is super cosy…”

 

 “All the good things,” Peter chuckled against his shoulder. “Still soaring, sweetheart?”

 

 “Mmm, bit,” Stiles agreed, not quite sure if he was smiling but guessing Peter would know he was pleased regardless. Chemosignals or whatever. Werewolf powers.

 

 “So is this how werewolf courtship works?” Stiles asked, rolling over to face Peter without pulling out of the heat of his arms. Yeah, he was so sticky down there but it was warm right there, against Peter’s body and cleanliness could wait.

 

 Peter studied him. “Well, of course I have to urinate on you when we’re done and then we have to mate under the light of the moon in the blood of six virgins.”

 

 Stiles thumped him hard on the chest. “You are such a dick,” he complained without heat. He went to swat Peter again but strong fingers wrapped around his wrist mid-motion. Holding his gaze, Peter caught the tip of Stiles’s forefinger between his teeth.

 

 Stiles watched his mouth, then his eyes, witnessing the power there beneath the surface in its final display of trust.

 

 When Peter released his fingertip with a soft, sucking conclusion, Stiles closed his eyes, sated and tired and warm. “This is turning out to be such a good weekend,” he mumbled. “So much food and sex and like, the comfiest bed in the world ever…”

 

 Peter hummed again, dragging his palm along Stiles’s side under the sheets. “And good company.”

 

 Stiles yawned, though his tiredness didn’t belly the truth in his response. “The best.”

 

*

 

 THREE MONTHS LATER…

 

 Even though apparently everyone knew they’d been doing some unofficial courtship dance of interest around each other, nobody knew exactly what had happened in the mountains. It had just made sense to keep it to themselves while they figured it out. It felt nice, essential even, to extend the solitude they’d had in the inn and keep their budding closeness to themselves for a while. Not to mention, they both got off on the sneaking around.

 

 Stiles stretched out on his stomach in his own bed, Peter’s fingers trailing lazily over his bare back as he drifted awake. The morning light streamed in through his blind, not fully extended to cover the crack at the base of the window.

 

 “You’d better get up or you’ll be late for work,” Peter mused, tracing idle patterns across Stiles’s skin.

 

 Stiles huffed. “You just wait ‘til the sale of that bookstore goes through and you actually have to get up out of bed too.” It was a terrifying thought, Peter sweet-talking unsuspecting book lovers like every bookworm’s wet dream and plying them with caffeine to boot.

 

 The fact that Peter was a morning person was something he’d learned early on. The fact that Stiles was _not_ seemed to delight him and exacerbate his slow smiles and teasing jibes. But he did share Stiles’s affinity for slow, lazy morning sex, hot showers and, of course, coffee so after slowly, subtly tormenting Stiles into waking with teasing, gentle caresses and enquiring nuzzles that Stiles suspected was scenting, he seemed to like indulging Stiles by making the first morning coffee.

 

 Long fingers tickled between his shoulders and Stiles swore before rolling out of bed. He showered, knowing Peter would be downstairs with the coffee pot and headed toward the kitchen still pulling on his shirt. He froze dead at the sight of his dad reading through the newspaper with a coffee mug in hand. Another mug sat on the side, still steaming, Stiles’s batman mug.

 

 “Dad,” Stiles said, pleasantly surprised. “You managed to tie up that case?”

 

 “Yeah, thank God,” his dad said looking up to offer him a smile before turning the page of the paper. “Thanks for the coffee, kiddo.”

 

 So Peter had made the coffee, but was nowhere to be seen. With their relationship still secret, especially to his father it made sense, he supposed. Stiles nodded, approaching the counter and picking up his coffee mug. It was sweet, just like he liked it, with frothed milk in that delicious but pretentious way Peter always managed. The sight of the familiar signature coffee, the warm feeling of domesticity that spread through him like sunlight touching his skin made him look at his dad, trying to figure out a way to tell him. It felt like the moment, it felt…

 

 The chime of the doorbell made his dad look up with a frown. He checked the clock on the wall at the same time as Stiles. A little before nine. “Little early for a social call isn’t it?”

 

 Stiles had a suspicious feeling gnawing at his stomach and he pushed up from the counter, heading to the front door. Even though he was expecting it, his heart still stuttered at the sight of Peter standing there, fully dressed in the simple open-necked shirt and trousers he’d been wearing when he’d climbed in through Stiles’s window the night before unannounced. He looked as smooth and cool as ever, eyes twinkling in that way that put Stiles on edge and made his chest tight with appreciation all at once.

 

 “What are you doing?” he asked, confused.

 

 A slow smile, laced with charm spread across his face. “I’m here to meet your father of course.”

 

 Stiles blinked. His lips parted, on the verge of saying that he was pretty sure they’d already met when finally the last vestiges of sleep left him and it clicked. His mouth closed soundlessly. There was a moment of hesitation, a beat where their gazes locked and they asked each other if this was it, if what they felt was more.

 

 They’d talked, they’d touched, they’d learned so much in the blissfully clandestine intimacy of their own little world. It felt scary to bring it out into the open, like lifting a delicate work of art onto a stand for all to see and judge. Peter looked patient and knowing and yet also that perfect mix of zeal and anticipation that Stiles felt too, lingering at the edges.

 

 Stiles reached out, sliding his hand into Peter’s, letting his thumb brush against the back of his hand as he studied his face. Everyday with Peter was exhilarating and calming and so perfectly flawed and this was just the next chapter. He couldn’t wait to live it.

 

 He beckoned Peter into the hall, shutting the front door before heading into the kitchen alone. His dad’s head was down still, his body relaxed, content even, perhaps, with the coffee Peter had made in his hand. So innocent, so unsuspecting, it was almost a shame to rile him up after a long shift but he suspected it’d be a surprise no matter how or when it came out. His father was the one person not close enough to pack life to be privy to the secret that everyone knew.

 

 “Dad?” he asked, a little nervous.

 

“Mmm?”

 

 Stiles swallowed. “Peter Hale is here to meet you, like…officially.”

 

 There was a long moment and then he saw the moment his dad registered what he’d said. His cup was frozen, poised half way to his lips as he slowly lifted his gaze to Stiles. His eyes darted to the doorway but from that angle he couldn’t quite see the place Peter was standing, before fixing on Stiles once more. He looked shocked, then thoughtful. His silence stretched out so long Stiles felt anxiety coiling in his belly. Because this was his dad and Peter and they were both so important.

 

 Perhaps his visible distress was what stabilised his father in his surprise, because he seemed to really look at Stiles then, before rising to his feet. He crossed the room, squeezing Stiles’s shoulder before drawing him into a tight hug. His dad was so warm, so strong and Stiles leaned into his comfort, one of his token hugs that dictated everything his reserved father couldn’t find the words to say.

 

 “Do I need to get the shotgun?” his dad mumbled in his ear.

 

 Stiles couldn’t help the little burst of relieved laughter that bubbled out of him at the resigned, if wary sound of his father’s acceptance. “I dunno. I think he’d probably like that, if anything.”

 

 

THE END


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